


Loud

by Ametistina



Category: Southland
Genre: F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-05
Updated: 2011-03-05
Packaged: 2017-10-16 03:00:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ametistina/pseuds/Ametistina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Whoa, <em>whoa</em>,” she whispered urgently. “My mom is right upstairs!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loud

**Author's Note:**

> Doing my part to address the dearth of Lydia fic! PWP set a few weeks after 3x09 "Failure Drill," with one big spoiler right at the beginning. Thanks to CL for the beta. You were wonderful, as usual.

Rodrigo Morales Ochoa says he’s old-fashioned. Holds doors open for her. Pays for dinner, when she lets him. And he always helps with her jacket—though from how close he stands, his body heat making the jacket almost superfluous, she’s starting to suspect it’s a ploy. He definitely doesn’t have sex on the first date. Or the second. Or the third.

He also gives some of the best head Lydia’s ever had the pleasure of receiving.

 She’s not exactly sure how this happened. It wasn't even a real date, just drinks after a long day. The bar was too noisy, full of singles trying to impress each other, the volume of their inane conversations increasing with each round of drinks. So they headed back to her place to talk. Eventually, talking led to kissing. And before she knew it, he was reaching for her belt buckle.

 “Whoa, _whoa_ ,” she whispered urgently, raising her hands defensively and scooting backward on the couch. They’d been speaking in full voice before, but once they started doing more than talking she became acutely aware of how thin the floors were. “My mom is right upstairs!”

 “Well, it’s after 12:30. Is she usually up this late?” He spoke in his usual measured tones, as if he’d already thought this through.

 She shook her head.

 “Then I can promise you that _I_ won’t be too loud,” he said pointedly. He ran a finger up her exposed arm, leaving goose bumps in its wake. When she hesitated, he locked eyes with her, the brown of his irises seeming to grow darker as he watched her. “Please, Lydia,” he said, voice husky and just soft enough that she had to lean closer to hear him. “I just really want to taste you.”

 She tried to ignore the way he said her name, the rounded vowels and the “L” soft like a caress. But she couldn’t ignore the effect his plea had on her. If it was a line, it was a damned good one—besides, all of her cop senses were telling her he was sincere. So she nodded cautiously, and soon she was gasping as he slipped a warm hand into her pants.

 ***

Those pants are now … well, she’s not quite sure where, nor can she tell how much time has passed. She’s perched on the old armchair—they moved here because it was a little higher than the couch—legs spread, socks still on. He’s kneeling between her thighs in what must be an uncomfortable position. Yet aside from asking her to not pull his hair quite so hard, he hasn’t complained. He’s too busy eating her out, with such thoroughness that she’s having trouble staying quiet.

She marvels at the versatility of his tongue. Now he’s using the broad, flat side of it, licking a wide stripe just next to her clit—so tantalizingly close that a low moan of frustration escapes her. Other times, his tongue feels more focused, almost like a finger as it slides in and out, fucking her gently but shallowly until she has to bite her fist to keep from crying out. And he alternates these sensations deliberately, effectively, bringing her to the edge again and again.

It’s not just his tongue, though. He performs his task assiduously: no part is ignored. When he sucks her inner labia into his mouth, she has to hold back a yelp of surprise. She’s not even sure she enjoys the sensation, but she’s certain that no one else has ever tried it. She is beginning to realize that maybe none of her past lovers were actually _good_ at oral sex—most could get the job done, but they were always concise and direct … the very opposite of what Rodrigo’s been doing for God knows how long.

She thought, when they first started, that she wanted this even more than he did, but now she’s not so sure.

As talented as he is, she hasn’t come yet, not once. She’s starting to feel self-conscious and a little guilty. Her muscles are tense from holding herself in; even her toes are sore from all the curling and uncurling. And she can only imagine how his back must feel. It might be better to let him stop—because surely he’s done enough already—and if necessary she can finish quietly by herself, in her own bed.

She brushes his shoulder to get his attention, and when he glances up the entire bottom half of his face is glistening, even his moustache. God, he looks obscene. She has to remind herself of what she was going to say.

“Hey, Rodrigo,” she whispers. She’s not sure why; if Mom hasn’t heard anything yet, she’s not going to, and if she has, what’s the point? Still, she continues to speak softly. “This has been … great, really good, but I think maybe we should—I mean, your back…”

When he grins at her, she trails off, not sure how to interpret the response. “Lydia,” he says, squeezing her thighs rhythmically, “It’s just like at the gun range: you can’t forget to breathe.”

He’s _not_ whispering, and she’s just about to shush him when he continues. “As awesome as tasting you is, I want to _hear_ you too.” Before she can absorb that, he winks and ducks his head down again. Then he hums into her, low and deep, creating a warm vibration that shatters any intentions she had of stopping.

In fact, she’s so disconcerted by what he’s said that she doesn’t remember to hold back the heavy breathing she’s quelled for most of the night. She notices almost immediately that she’s a little less tense, so when she feels a moan escaping, she lets it. And soon the pleasure becomes so intense that edges of her vision start to whiten.

His mouth is warm and insistent, and he’s again found the spot that makes her feel out of control. The moustache tickles slightly as he works over that spot, the light strokes of his tongue increasing in pressure until she’s gripping the chair and moaning softly with every breath. When he teases her with a single finger, she rocks into it mindlessly. He deftly slides a second finger in and twists, stroking inside and tonguing her clit at the same time.

There’s no real build-up to orgasm; it sneaks up on her, like she’s fallen through a trap door. And she comes _hard_ , shuddering and rocking and sobbing as sparks of sensation shoot through her body. Tears are trickling down her cheeks, and she’s not entirely sure she didn’t pass out for a moment. But just as she’s drifting back to earth, he strokes a few more times and it happens all over again. He makes her come over and over again, until she’s so wrung out that she implores him to stop.

And suddenly there’s silence, a silence that’s startling after the racket she’s been making. He rests his head on her thigh as she sinks back into the chair, both of them sweaty and exhausted. They remain that way for a few minutes, her hand idly stroking his hair, her mind blissfully blank.

Until the silence is finally broken … by the sound of floorboards creaking overhead. And it’s not just the house settling.

When he looks up at her, brow raised in tacit amusement, she can’t help but laugh.


End file.
